


The Visitor

by TheBoneMandala



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24108409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBoneMandala/pseuds/TheBoneMandala
Summary: It's Sam who notices first.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	The Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> been doing a Marvel movie marathon with my mom since she's only seen Iron Man 1 & 2, and this idea came to mind. probs just gonna leave it as a one-off but might turn it into a more serious story if there's enough interest.

The mission is a success. Despite the long trip to Tibet, and the trouble they have with actually _finding_ the base, they somehow manage to not only destroy the remote Hydra base but escape with little to no injuries. It’s almost suspicious how well things go, but they are back in time for dinner the next night so no one has any complaints.

It’s Sam who notices first.

It’s early morning when he enters the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. He shivers at the crisp air and mutters something under his breath about ‘Tony and his damn a/c’. The coffee doesn’t take long, and he nearly groans at the warmth that courses through his body with the first sip. He sets the cup down, reaching for his phone only to realize he doesn’t have it with him. He huffs, walking back to his room to look for it and abandoning his coffee on the edge of the counter.

The cup is gone when Sam returns, phone in hand. “Huh-,” he hums, staring at the space where the cup had once been, “-coulda sworn I’d left it…” It takes him a minute, but he finally spots it not on the counter, but sitting beside the sink, still full and steaming. He looks over the cup, then around the room but there’s no one else in the room with him. He shrugs it off, chalking it up to be his not-yet-awake mind; they did have a long night of celebrations and _maybe_ a little more drinking than necessary.

Whatever it was, his coffee tastes fine and Sam finds no trouble in continuing the rest of his day.

* * *

Nearly a week later, Tony has some new form of gadget that is supposed to make "the best pancakes this side of New York" and invites everyone to breakfast. Whether this machine will work or not, no one wants to pass up the opportunity of a free breakfast, or to see Tony possibly humiliate himself. They gather around the table, when Natasha leans back in her chair and glances at the TV.

“Looks like _someone_ left the TV on again last night,” Natasha comments, giving a Clint a pointed look. He glances over at the TV, to find it muted but turned on.

“Wasn’t me this time,” Clint shrugs, giving a subtle gesture towards Thor, who’s too invested in a conversation with Steve to notice. Natasha rolls her eyes, standing from the table and turning the TV off.

“Didn’t realize he was a fan of Project Runway,” Natasha mutters to Clint as she retakes her seat. Clint smiles into his cup of coffee but their attention is quickly drawn to Tony, as something clatters to ground, and smoke rises from the stove.

* * *

Peter isn’t trying to fall asleep in the middle of his project, but it happens anyways. It’s nearly two in the morning and he’s surrounded by books and notecards and markers and papers and whatever else his teacher required to finish this stupid history report. He can barely keep his eyes open despite the two energy drinks he’d slammed earlier in the evening. ‘It’ll just be for five minutes’ he thinks, folding his arms on the table to rest his head atop them.

He just needs a small break.

The smell of fresh coffee lulls him out of his slumber. He blinks, finally realizing it’s not his laptop screen shining in his face, but rays of early sunlight streaming through the windows. Peter shoots up in his chair, nearly knocking himself off of it. Something soft slides from his shoulders and onto the floor. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, trying to register his surroundings. He picks the fluffy blanket up from the floor, folding it haphazardly into his lap. His things are stacked neatly on the table: his laptop is closed, books organized by size, markers arranged by color, and notecards put into numerical order. His phone sits plugged in, next to a steaming to-go cup full of hot coffee. A _particularly good_ cup of coffee, Peter notes as he takes a small sip and picks up his phone.

The euphoria of the coffee disappears when he notices the time. He struggles to gather his things into his backpack, which has been kindly hung on the back of his chair. He grabs the coffee, because he’s not forgetting something _that_ good, and rushes out the door, nearly slamming into Tony on his way out.

“ _Whoa_ , kid-”

“Sorry, Mr. Stark! Late for school!” Peter says, darting down the hall. “Thanks for the coffee!” the boy calls over his shoulder. If Tony has any questions, Peter’s gone before he can answer them, but judging by the kid’s words and the smell coming from the kitchen, someone’s made coffee. Tony eagerly makes his way to the kitchen, grabbing his favorite mug from the cabinet.

He’s disappointed to find that not only is there no coffee in the pot, the coffeemaker hasn’t even been turned on. Tony sniffs. The kitchen clearly _smells_ like coffee…and Peter definitely had a cup with him. So why isn’t there…? Tony sighs, because even though there’s no coffee, he’s now got a craving for it, so _he’ll_ have to make some. He grabs the handle of the pot to adjust it.

The pain hits him instantly. The handle of the pot scalds his hand, the heat so overbearing he barely gets his muscles to let go of the damn thing. It clatters to the ground, the glass cracking and chipping as Tony scrambles to run cold sink water over his red palm.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. remind me to get a new coffee pot.”

* * *

“Alright, look,” all attention flies to Sam, who slams his hands on the kitchen counter, “we’re all adults here, so maybe we can have this discussion like _adults_. Now, whoever’s doing it, this is your chance to come forward and we’ll talk about this and then go on about our days. And you know, I get it. I do. I get hungry in the middle of the night; I sneak into the kitchen for a little _midnight snack_ too but-”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bucky interrupts his tirade.

“I’m talking about whoever is leaving _half-eaten strawberries_ around the goddamn kitchen!” The room goes quiet. “Once is fine. I get it, that could be an accident. Twice, maybe still an accident. _Three times_ , one of y’all clearly didn’t get enough home-training. But this is the _sixth_ _time_ -”

“Wilson, no one’s leaving _half-eaten_ fruit around the-”

“Well, it sure as shit ain’t a _fruit ghost_ ,” Sam bites back. He takes a deep breath, running his hands down his face before setting them on his waist. “Look, I’m just gonna go and while I’m gone, whichever one of you is doing it can take the time to reflect on your… _habits_ , and when I come back, we can just forget all about this. Okay?”

Sam doesn’t give anyone a chance to answer as he walks out the door.

* * *

Three days after Sam’s strawberry tirade, Natasha ventures into the kitchen expecting to get a glass of water. She doesn’t expect to nearly trip over Steve as he’s crouched underneath the kitchen sink, kneeling atop a soaked towel.

“You’re not gonna find any buried treasure under there.”

Steve jumps, slamming his head on the counter. He crawls back until he can fully stand and turns as Natasha leans against the counter, glass of water in hand and curiosity on her face.

“There’s, uh…I think there’s a leak.” Steve points a thumb towards the sink. Natasha nods, taking a small sip.

“You fix it?”

“That’s the thing…I can’t find it-” Natasha raises a brow and Steve gestures to the towel on the floor, “-but there’s these _puddles_ on the floor _every_ time I come in here.”

“Did you tell Stark?”

“Not yet.” There’s a beat of silence as Steve repeatedly moves his gaze between the kitchen sink and wet towel. “I guess, I’ll…let Tony know next time I see him.”

* * *

Sam enjoys his morning runs. The crisp New York air in his lungs, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the music blasting in his ears.

But for some reason, the latter seems to be impossible for him this morning. He starts with a simple song, a score from one of his favorite action movies, but before he can get out the door the song switches to a pop song he’s never heard of. He switches it back, lacing his shoes up. He finishes his left shoe just as the pop song comes back on. He changes it back, irritation beginning to emerge. The pop song comes back before he can even start to tie his right shoe. He huffs, attempting to change back to his music, but the volume raises so high he jumps.

Sam yanks his headphones out, tossing them somewhere on the floor and decides he doesn’t need music for his run today.

* * *

Bruce is no stranger to his teammates’ antics. Living with them has put him in the opportunity to see them is all kinds of compromising positions, whether he wanted to or not. So, when he walks into the kitchen to find Clint, Thor, and Scott huddled around the counter, he stays quiet and continues his venture to the fridge. He watches them momentarily as they attempt to open…a jar of pickles?

“Maybe if I use one of my exploding arrows…” Clint mutters as he watches Scott struggle with the lid.

“Nonsense!” Thor chimes in, “We need only our strength-”

“You’ve been…trying…to get this thing…open for…nearly half an hour,” Scott retorts as he struggles with the lid. He huffs in resignation, stepping back from the jar and massaging his muscles, “How’s _strength_ working out for ya?” They stand in silence, the three of them seemingly pondering the jar. Bruce takes that as his cue to leave and begins to silently make his way out of the kitchen.

“Ah, friend Hulk!”

_Dammit_.

“Come, join us in-”

“Nah,” Bruce smiles halfheartedly, “you guys seem like you got this one.”

“If we had it, it’d be open,” Scott mumbles, glaring hatefully at the jar.

“It’s just a pickle jar?” Bruce looks between the three. They return his stare, watching as though he should understand their plight. The staring contest continues for an uncomfortably long amount of time before Bruce caves.

It doesn’t take as long for him to get absolutely, completely _fed up_ with the jar. Not only does the lid on this jar not budge, but the jar itself refuses to move more than inch. No matter which way Bruce pulls it, a force as though someone is holding it keeps it in place. An _exceptionally strong_ someone.

The others are cheering Bruce and his growing green fingers when Sam walks in. The room halts as Bruce’s hand slowly slides off the jar.

“You gotta try this thing,” Scott laughs, pointing at the jar.

An hour later, Bruce and Steve are the only two who can get the jar to _slightly_ move if they don’t count Tony with the Iron Man arm attached. Thor comes close _once_ but hasn’t been able to do it again. At some point, pizza is delivered, and beers are passed around as opening “the impossible pickle jar” becomes a group event.

In the end, Tony declares it a prank and congratulates whoever has pulled it off before storming away. The others take this as their cue to leave, the night ending on a more pleasant note. The last one in the room, Thor tosses his beer bottle into the trash and takes two steps out of the kitchen when something clinks behind him. He turns swiftly to see the pickle jar on the edge of the counter, the lid lying upside down next to it.

* * *

Workouts are always tiring, but they seem to be especially tiring when training with America’s strongest warrior. Still, Sam prides himself on how well he can hold his own and looks forward to his post-workout meal.

He’s not a bad cook by any means, but Sam has an unfortunate habit of leaving cabinets open behind him as he goes.

He leaves the fridge open when he grabs the vegetables from the crisper.

When he turns away, the fridge closes behind him.

He picks through the cabinets for spices, leaving each one open behind him.

When he turns towards the counter, they close abruptly.

Sam nearly has a heart attack.

His plans for food are immediately abandoned. He watches the cabinets intently, crazed eyes scrutinizing every inch of the kitchen before him. The plan is not well thought-out, but Sam is officially freaked out and doesn’t really care. He takes a deep breath and slowly counts.

One…

Two…

Three…

Sam has never moved faster in his life. He swings the fridge wide open before his begins his assault on the cabinets. He swings open every cabinet he can get his hands on, then starts yanking on the drawers. He steps back, pressing himself against the counter as he stares at the flung open kitchen. Sam’s heart pounds against his ribs, as the kitchen hangs in prolonged silence.

It happens all at once. The cabinets, the drawers, the fridge; they all slam shut with a force that shakes the entire room.

Sam leaves without another word.

* * *

Bucky is no stranger to insomnia. In all honesty, he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in _years_ but in those years, he’s also made the discovery that there’s nothing a glass of whiskey won’t help. Luckily for him, Tony keeps the bar fully stocked.

He’s sitting quietly at the bar, halfway through his second glass when he hears it.

It’s a soft scrape from the dining room. Bucky turns, squinting to try and see in the darkness of the dining room. Tony’s new coffeemaker lightly hums but the kitchen is otherwise still. Bucky huffs, returning to his drink with a shake of his head. He’s two sips in when he hears it again, this time louder and _definitely_ from the dining room.

Bucky stands, his gaze fixed on the dining room. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust but when they do, he sees a chair pulled away from the table, facing towards him.

“Hello?” he calls out, looking around the room for anyone else. His call is met with silence as he turns back towards the table.

The chair is back, tucked under the table as if it hadn’t moved at all.

Bucky downs his drink and goes back to bed.

He tells the team about it during breakfast the next morning and while they remain skeptical, Steve backs him up with the suggestion they check the security cams. The team gathers around as F.R.I.D.A.Y. brings up the footage and fast-forwards to Bucky’s late-night drink. They watch Bucky fix his drink and Wanda shivers.

“You okay?” Natasha asks from just behind her. Wanda nods, rubbing her arms. She takes a few deep breaths, but Natasha can see the way her hands begin to shake.

In the footage, Bucky begins his second drink.

Wanda jumps with a short scream and swats at her right shoulder.

Natasha puts a hand on her arm to balance her and the cold from Wanda’s skin radiates through her clothes. The team quickly changes their focus to ensure she’s okay.

The screen flickers and the chair slides away from the table then slides back under it.

No one sees it.

* * *

“Enough is enough!”

It’s his first night back in the compound since the cabinet incident and Sam is _fed the fuck up_.

“I’m sick of your shenanigans!” He points a vicious finger towards Tony. Steve steps away from Bucky and the pool table and cautiously towards Sam.

“Sam, why don’t you just calm-”

“No! I’ve been dealing with his shit for over a month and I’m _done_. You hear that? Okay? You won!” Sam gestures wildly towards Tony.

“I usually do but why don’t you tell me what it is I won this time?” Tony’s taunting him and it takes everything in Sam’s willpower not to lunge at him.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know!” Sam scoffs, “first it was moving my coffee cup. Then it was leaving the damn strawberries everywhere-”

“This _again_?” Bucky scoffs.

“And then- then it was my music! And I gotta hand it to you, I have no idea how you pulled the cabinet thing off, but you don’t have to do it anymore, okay? Y’know whatever _slight_ I’ve made against you, but I- I’m gonna be the bigger person and you know what? _I apologize_ for whatever it is you think I’ve done. So, you can stop with the hacking my iPod, and the leaving fruit around, and the doors always slamming behind me-”

“I’m gonna stop you right there.” Tony raises a hand as he gets up from the couch to head towards the bar. “While this might sound like something I’d do, and don’t get me wrong, I applaud whoever’s doing it-” Tony gestures towards the others around the room, “-but you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“No one else here has control over the compound so either it’s a prank that all of y’all might be apparently be in on, or this place is _haunted_.”

That sets the others off.

“Haunted?”

“Really, Sam?”

“You don’t actually believe in that stuff, do you?”

Sam throws his hands up in the air. “Well, it doesn’t look like any of you are owning up to the freaky shit that I _know_ all of you have noticed has been going on around here. So, unless you have another explanation-”

“Then prove it,” Tony calls, a glass half full of whiskey in his hand. “Convince us of this ‘ _ghost_ ’.”

“And how am I supposed to do that? Just call out ‘well, uh, hi there mister or missus ghost if you could just flicker the lights for us and prove that you’re real, pretty please’?”

Tony opens his mouth to retort.

Everything goes dark.

“Very funny, Wilson,” Tony scoffs, “F.R.I.D.A.Y. turn on backup generators.” They stand in silence, waiting for the lights to return.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

They get no answer.

“What’s going on?”

“Have we been hacked?”

“Maybe there was a power outage?”

“A power outage wouldn’t cause _this_.” The others maneuver around the room, throwing around theories and preparing for the possibility that this could be an attack.

“Uh, ghost?” Sam calls out. The others turn towards him, staring in disbelief. “Can you turn the lights back on?”

“ _Really_ , Sam?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“This is ridic-”

Light floods the room.

* * *

Nothing else happens for the next two days. Natasha walks into the living room, nodding at Clint as he leaves. Project Runway flashes on the TV to her left and she shakes her head, making a mental note to talk to Clint about his habit of leaving the TV on. She sits down on the couch, legs curled up next to her, and flicks through channels. It doesn’t take long for her to find a movie as she settles in.

She’s five minutes into the movie when the screen flickers and Tim Gunn’s dulcet tones echo throughout the room, “ _Hello, designers_.” Grabbing the remote, Natasha changes it back, but the movie barely comes onto the screen before it switches back again. She opens the menu, changing to another channel at random.

She barely has time to blink when something _yanks_ the remote from her hand, sending it flying across the room. The screen begins soaring through channels until the TV flicks to nothing but static.

The screen flickers.

“ _Hello, designers_.”

* * *

Natasha is barely halfway through explaining what happened with television last night when Sam slams his hands down on the table.

“And _that_ doesn’t scream ghost to any of you?!” The others look at him like he’s crazy, but he can see the doubt slowly beginning to creep into some of them.

“It definitely might be-” Steve begins.

“A ghost!” Sam exclaims.

“Perhaps a haugbui?” Thor suggests through a mouthful of breakfast, “has there been anyone buried here?”

“There better not be,” Scott speaks up.

“What if it’s someone who needs help? Like, they can’t move on or something?” Clint throws out the question.

“Let’s all just calm down,” Bruce sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We can all acknowledge that something is going on here, but I think we can all agree that it’s not a _ghost_ or a…whatever Thor said.”

“Hey, you don’t know-”

“Sam, just- _ghosts don’t exist_ , okay?” Bruce huffs.

The words barely escape his mouth when the kitchen cabinet slams open so quickly it nearly swings off the hinges. The boxes of cereal on the second shelf lightly shake before the one box that everyone knows Bruce favors, rips open and spills onto the floor.

Sam has never felt so vindicated. 

“You were saying?”

* * *

Things do not improve over the next two days. People’s things are moved around, cabinets and drawers are closed abruptly, TV channels are changed mid-movie, and the ghost’s affinity for making coffee is becoming more apparent.

Yet, instead of working together to discover the source of these ghostly antics, the team turns on each other.

It’s never outright said but the idea of this being an elaborate prank war has seeped into everyone’s mind. The air in the compound has turned tense with suspicion. Once friendly conversations turn to subtle interrogations, using kind words to try and discover the identities of the alleged pranksters.

Steve favors his compass in one hand, the other holding his notebook as he sits on the common room couch. He stares at the list of names with an intensity usually saved for missions. He’s ruled out Sam, since it was him who brought this entire situation to a head. It definitely isn’t Bucky or Bruce. Wanda’s too kind to let this go on for so long. Peter’s not around enough to keep up with the pranks. That leaves Thor, Natasha, Clint, and Scott. His running theory is that it began with Scott and Clint, who probably dragged Natasha into it. He’s not sure where Thor fits in but it’s not entirely impossible he’s also a part of this.

He lets out a long sigh, snapping the notebook shut. Living in the compound has been insufferable these past few weeks and things only seem to be getting worse. While they’ve been lucky to not have any dire missions, Steve is beginning to worry how all of this will effect their ability to work together on the field.

He stands from the couch with a stressed huff.

He makes it halfway to his room when he realizes he didn’t put his compass back in his pocket. He turns swiftly to head back to the couch but when he gets two steps into the living room, he pauses. The compass lifts itself by the chain, hanging in the air for a brief moment. It turns over a few times before it stills.

Steve barely has time to react when the compass launches itself at him with a monstrous speed. He’s able to catch it but the sting in his hand is palpable. He inhales sharply, attempting to shake the sting off his hand and looks back to the couch.

The cushions sink in right where Steve had been sitting.

* * *

The team is ready to tear out each other’s throats by Saturday.

They eat breakfast in silence, refusing to sit near one another and eyeing each other anytime someone makes the tiniest of moves.

“I have found the solution to our problems!” Tony waltzes into the room, a box held high above his head like a prized trophy. He sets the box on the table and turns to the room, holding his hands out in victory.

“A…Ouija board?” Natasha asks, tilting her head so she can read the box, but Sam takes it before she can get a good look.

“You can’t be serious,” Bruce sighs into his coffee as Sam opens it, tossing the lid to the side. 

“Unless anyone else has an explanation for what’s been going on?” Tony gestures around the room and it met with silence, “No? No one?”

“Aren’t those things for kids?” Clint questions.

“This is a type of game?” Thor asks, looking up from his food and towards the box with curious excitement.

“It’s a thing people use to talk to ghosts-,” Natasha explains.

“ _Allegedly_ ,” Rhodey cuts in.

“You allow your children to commune with the dead?” Thor can barely keep the surprise from his face as his gaze travels to the board. Scott picks up the lid as Sam begins unwrapping the planchette and looks over the cover; a picture of a pair of pale hands on the planchette with the word Ouija plastered on the front in a bold gothic font.

“It can be for a adults too,” Tony argues, "it's probably even recommended more so for adults."

“’Recommended for ages eight through twelve’,” Scott reads aloud, “says it right there.” He turns the cover towards the room, pointing out the tiny words printed on the bottom right corner.

“Twelve shmelve,” Sam scoffs as he sets up the board and slides it on the table between him and Steve. “We’re getting to the bottom of this.” He sets his fingertips on the edge of planchette, looking at Steve expectantly. A moment passes through the room as Sam and Steve stare at each other before Steve finally relents with a long sigh.

“Fine. How do we do this?”

“Do I look like I know how to talk to ghosts? Just puts your hands on the thingie!”

“ ’s called a _planchette_.” Scott reads off the back of the box through a mouthful of toast. Sam mumbles something unkind before squaring his shoulders as Steve sets his fingertips on the planchette.

An uncomfortable amount of time passes with absolutely no results.

“Is it on?” Clint asks.

“Says here you gotta ask it a question,” Scott says from behind the box cover.

“Okay,” Steve mutters under his breath. “Is, um, is anyone there?” Steve can hear Bucky scoff at his question but otherwise the room stays quiet, all eyes trained on the board.

The planchette that doesn’t move.

Scott reads further down the cover, “Okay, it says to ‘allow one to five minutes for an answer to come’.” Sam takes his hands off the planchette to fully turn towards Scott.

“You wanna tell us these things _before_ we start doing them?”

“Uh, Sam?” Sam turns back around at the sound of Steve’s voice.

Steve’s fingertips remain on the planchette as it slowly slides around the board. It circles the board three times then inches towards the top of the board.

It stops on NO.

“ _Very funny_.” Sam rolls his eyes, standing from his chair.

“Sam, that...that wasn’t me,” Steve tries to reason but Sam waves him off, collecting his plate and moving towards the other end of the table.

“Give it here.” Natasha grabs the board before anyone can argue and sets it between her and Bucky. They both place their fingertips on the planchette, though Bucky seems less than thrilled. “What’s your name?” Natasha asks.

The planchette circles the board three times.

NO.

“You’re moving it,” Bucky scoffs, taking his hands off the board and leaning back in his chair.

“I’m not,” Natasha glares. She gestures for Bucky to put his hands back on the planchette, but he crosses his arms, cementing himself in his seat. “Fine, I’ll just ask it another question myself.”

“Nope,” Scott calls out, “supposed to use it with two or more people.” He taps his finger on the sixth rule written on the back of the box.

“Okay, someone else needs to be in charge of instructions,” Sam says, grabbing the box from Scott’s hands.

“This is ridiculous-” Bruce sets his coffee on the counter a little harsher than necessary, “we are not being _haunted_. There is no _ghost_.”

“You got another explanation for the weird shit that’s been happening around here?” Sam slams the box cover on the table.

“Calm down. Clearly someone’s just playing a joke-” Steve tries to explain.

“You can’t really believe that after everything we’ve seen!”

“And what exactly have we seen?” Bucky asks.

It doesn’t take long for the room to devolve into an argument that has most of the team nearly screaming at each other.

Scott sighs, gathering the board to pack it back in the box. The others stand from the table, slowly closing in on each other. Scott reaches for the board but gets distracted by the planchette that is slightly shaking over the NO. He picks it up just as Thor begins lecturing the room about messing with spirits.

For a cheap children’s game, the planchette seems surprisingly well made. It’s made from real wood that’s been stained darker and the glass in the center has an almost blue shine to it if Scott angles it right.

Sam yells something about Bruce and his ‘non-believing science bullshit’.

Scott tosses the planchette up in the air and catches it easily. It’s not as heavy as he thinks it should be.

Tony argues that being a scientist doesn’t necessarily disprove the supernatural.

Scott lifts the planchette to his eye briefly imagining himself to be a pirate looking through a telescope.

He turns towards the group as Steve sets a sturdy hand on Sam's shoulder in an attempt to calm him.

An eye blocks the planchette’s view, unblinking and bloodshot.

Scott screams, tossing the planchette and stumbling back.

“Are you okay?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What happened?”

“There’s someone there!” Scott points to the planchette. “In the thing! I saw someone in there!” Tony scoops the planchette off the group before anyone else has the chance.

“You sure it wasn’t-” Tony holds the planchette in front of his face, “-well…shit.”

“What? What do you see?” Bruce reaches for the planchette and Tony moves to hand it to him, but the planchette flies out of his hand with a force that nearly knocks Tony over. The team duck and dodge as the piece flings itself towards the kitchen where it hovers just in front of the coffeemaker.

“You wanna explain _that_?” Sam huffs. The entire team is present and accounted for. There’s clearly no way anyone could be pulling a prank.

The planchette spins in the air a few times before it stops, tip pointed down, with the glass facing the team. It moves towards the team, who step away warily. It moves just a bit faster and stops in front of Thor. The team cautiously watch as it tilts up towards his face.

Thor’s brows knit together, and he actually _leans_ towards it.

“There’s an eye,” he states. He moves a finger to poke it but the planchette moves away, this time stopping in front of Steve and Sam. They lean in to look through the glass, Bucky leaning in behind them.

The bloodshot eye stares back at them.

Tony swings his arm out in an attempt to snatch the planchette out of the air. The planchette _dodges_ his hand and tosses itself onto the table where it slides onto the Ouija board. It circles the board rapidly, three times clockwise and three times counter-clockwise, then bounces between YES and NO before it turns to point towards the letters.

It shoots around the board, stopping every so often to circle the board once more. 

I P L D T R YES H E S C A A A A

X E NO A D E NO YES YES

NO

NO

NO

NO

* * *

Two weeks pass with the Ouija board moved to the coffee table where it sits untouched.

Not for lack of trying.

At least twice a day, usually when the “pranks” get to be too much, someone tries to grab the planchette, tries to communicate with the spirit they now know to be haunting the compound. And every time, just before their fingers can brush the wood, the planchette slides away and begins it nonsensical assault on the board letters.

Bruce and Tony have long since stopped trying to decipher any meaning from them.

It’s late Saturday night when Scott and Clint call everyone into the living room. It’s pitch black save for the dozens of lit candles that are creating a definite fire hazard, and the thick scent of multiple kinds of incense waft through the air. A crooked and awkwardly shaped pentagram sits beneath the Ouija board, drawn in what looks to be dry-erase marker. Small mirrors that Tony is sure had once been used for Halloween decorations sit on one of the side tables and on a couple of shelves, and there’s two magic 8-balls that have been poorly painted to look like crystal balls placed on either side of the Ouija board.

“Halloween’s not for a few more months, fellas.”

“We’re getting rid of the ghost!” Scott says , taking a seat on the floor in front of the coffee table. “Let’s go, take a seat.”

“No,” Rhodey asserts, “absolutely not.”

“Yeah, I agree with him on this one,” Sam sighs, shaking his head at the poorly decorated room.

“It’ll take ten minutes, tops. And you can’t tell me that no one here is sick of having their stuff moved around and messed with all day,” Clint reasons, sitting across from Scott.

“It’s worth a shot,” Natasha shrugs.

“Don’t encourage them,” Rhodey groans, scrubbing his hands down his face. His groans only increase when Tony takes a seat next to Clint with an easy-going smile and says:

“What’s the worse that could happen?”

Natasha narrowly dodges the bottle of whiskey that hurtles towards her and shatters on the wall behind her. She tries to crawl towards the couch to get better coverage but the heavy pressure in the room forces her against the ground and the intense wind keeps her from opening her eyes any wider than a squint. The others struggle around her to get themselves to safety, covering each other and dodging the projectiles that come from every direction.

“What did you two do?!” Bucky tries to yell but his words are lost in the cold wind that whips around them. Clint and Scott are crouched next to the coffee table staring at each other in wonderment. They had started with a summoning spell that Scott had found from a “legitimate source” ~~that was definitely not Google~~ , to get the ghost to appear and things went smoothly enough, the planchette beginning to move once the spell was finished.

It was the Banishment Spell that seemed to piss it off.

The temperature began to dip when the first words came out of their mouths, the pressure in the room slowly building as they carried forward, and before they could get halfway through the four line spell, the wind picked up, pulling objects off the shelves around room and flinging items towards them.

“We have to get it to stop!” Clint barely hears Scott over the noise. “Finish the spell!”

It takes most of their strength, but they manage to reach their arms under the coffee table far enough to grasp onto each other’s wrists. At the same time, they began their chant:

“Hear these words, hear my cry,”

The wind blows so hard it nearly rips apart their grip.

“Spirit from the other side,”

A cluster of books launches from their shelves and into Scott.

“Come to me, I summon thee,”

The planchette lifts so violently from the Ouija board, the glass cracks.

“Cross back now the Great Divide!”

There is the distinct sound of glass shattering as the planchette falls back onto the board. The wind stops, any items caught in its gusts dropping to the ground, and the pressure lifts from their bodies. Everyone slowly gets up, keeping a lookout for anymore flying books and whiskey bottles.

“You just had to say something, didn’t you?” Rhodey hisses as he helps Tony up, “Oh, ‘what’s the worse that could happen’? _This_ , Tony. Shit like _this_ could happen.”

“Hey!” Scott calls out. The group turns to him to see him smiling like a kid in a candy store despite the black eye blooming on his face. He holds the elusive planchette up, the glass completely shattered out of it. “I can grab it!”

“ _Please_ tell me that means we’re done with all of this,” Bruce practically pleads, already picking books up off the ground.

“I’d say we’re in the clear,” Scott nods, picking up the board and the broken planchette and tossing them onto the kitchen counter next to the trash can.

The shit-eating grin on Clint’s face speaks for itself. 

“ _You’re welcome_.”

* * *

It’s the first big mission they’ve had since Tibet, but it doesn’t go nearly as smooth.

The team returns, various injuries shared between them as they collapse tiredly about the communal area; no one having the energy to venture any farther than that. They take a few moments to catch their breaths and really assess their injuries, the silence lingering in the air.

“I need a drink,” Sam mutters, trying not to agitate his busted lip, “anyone want one?” Hands shoot up all around the room and Sam nods, slowly working his way towards the bar. He finishes a scotch on the rocks and pauses. “I’m up for it if anyone wants to make some foo-”

Sam stares into the kitchen, wide-eyed and on edge.

She sits cross-legged atop the Ouija board on the counter, tossing the broken planchette up into the air with one hand, a pile of half eaten strawberries sitting in front of her. She smiles widely, with too many teeth and a gaze that feels as though it pierces straight into his bones.

“ _Hello_.”


End file.
